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I love Paris and
have ever since I
first read Hemingway
and decided that I too
should be a writer. I
mean, who wouldn’t
want to hunt big game
in the Latin Quarter
or along the fog lined
quays in the early
brisk mornings when
the herds come down to
drink from the Seine
and said as much one
night in another
watering hole just off
of Boulevard St.
Michel.
“But Monsieur
‘Emingway hunted game
in Africa!” said a
confused Frenchman
mid-drink.
“Sure, but have you
seen some of these
tourists, they’re as
big as wildebeest!
Ornery too!”
“Mais oui!
But you cannot hunt
them.”
“Not in season, huh?
A pity this.”s.”
“C’est la vie.”
“I guess I’ll settle
to run with the bulls.
What time is the
running anyway?”
“The running of the
bulls, like in
‘Emingway’s novels?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Just after day
break, after you sing
to St. Fermin for
protection, a rocket
will go off telling
you to be ready as a
second rocket tells
you that the bulls are
loose on the street
and you should run.”
“Is it far from
here?”
“Spain? Oui.”
“Spain? Huh? What do
you know?” I said and
took a long and
thoughtful drink in
the tradition of
writers everywhere who
drink in excess while
looking thoughtful and
stay too long. In
homage to Hemingway I
should have been
drinking at Harry’s
American Bar & Grill.
Harry’s was a haunt of
Hemingway and it was
the place where the
first Bloody Mary
drink was invented. A
Bloody Mary, I was
told by one drinker,
is the only valid
reason for celery to
exist. But I digress…ss…
The fact of the
matter is that prior
to ever visiting the
French capital I had
only read one of
Hemingway’s books,
A Moveable Feast,
that is, if you don’t
count The Old Man
and the Sea which
was required reading
when I was in High
School. Even so I
hadn’t read it.
Instead I used Clift
Notes which had about
as many pages as the
original short-short
novel. I had used the
notes because I spent
most of my time in
class daydreaming
about a cheerleader
who sat two seats in
front of me. As I
recall the fantasy had
something to do with
her being naked,
waving her pom-poms,
and spelling out
something suggestive
and inappropriate to
me. But I digress
again…
Anyway, I came away
from the class knowing
that The Old Man
and the Sea was
about an old man, the
sea and quite possibly
a boat.
Now this doesn’t
necessarily speak
volumes about the
inadequacies of an
American public school
education as it does
speak volumes about my
own inadequacies
acquiring that
education.
My mind wasn’t on
education then and I
wasn’t bound for
college upon
graduation. I was
bound for the war in
Vietnam. I knew it, my
high school teachers
knew it, and more
importantly the Draft
Board knew it.
“A college
deferment? Are you
kidding us!?” said
one of the Draft Board
members studying my
grade sheet and trying
to keep from laughing.
I shook my head and
they shook theirs.
‘Deferment denied,’
they proclaimed and
next informed me that
the President would
soon be sending me
greetings in the form
of a mass mailing
draft notice.
Not wanting or
waiting to be drafted
into the meat-grinding
Infantry to serve as
cannon fodder in the
distant country I
couldn’t find on a map
if I tried, I enlisted
instead…and
volunteered for the
meat-grinding Infantry
where I didn’t exactly
become cannon fodder
in the distant war but
did get shot several
times in a Southeast
Asian version of
TAG-You’re It!
And it was during
that recovery time in
the hospital, a
draftee who had
borrowed some money
from me, gave me a
naked picture of his
wife to hold as
collateral until he
paid me back, which he
eventually did. In
thanks he gave me a
book.
“Here, read this.”
“What is it?”
“A book,” he said.
“You said you want to
be a writer so reading
one of these might be
helpful.”
“A Moveable Feast?
What it is it, a
cookbook?”
“It’s about Ernest
Hemingway’s early days
in Paris. It’s about
the writers he knew
and you should know
too.”
“Not about food,
huh?”
“Nope, no food.”
“Why Paris?”
“The French didn’t
do so well in Vietnam
either. We have
something in common.”
“Can I keep the
picture of your wife
instead.”
“No, to have and
have not.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you have to
read the book and I
dunno, maybe one or
two others on your
literary quest.”
“Yeah, but I just want
to be a writer,” I
argued. “Not an
intellectual.”
“Then you’ll blend in
well.”
“Thank you…I think.”
And that was my
introduction to Ernest
Hemingway, A
Moveable Feast,
where I first met the
Generation Perdu
of ex-pat artists and
writers trying to find
them selves in Paris,
the meaning of their
existence or quite
possibly and more
probably, to find
someone to pick up the
tab for their next
round of drinks.
Thanks to Hemingway,
I first came to know
something of Paris and
something more than
what the travel guide
books would or could
convey, something of
the trust-fund
‘arteests’ who lived,
worked or partied
there in the 20s, and
thanks to other
authors and travel
writers I learned
something of the
people, the grand
boulevards and small
streets, contemplative
parks and places that
set the tone for that
initial visit.al visit.
That first trip,
hitch-hiking through
Europe, after a tour
of duty in Vietnam,
was less than
inspiring, highly
scenic, slightly
magical, but
comfortable none the
less. Later visits
confirmed that Paris
is a great city to sit
and think deep or even
shallow thoughts, to
sip Absinthe and write
powerful sentences or
jumbled nonsense, to
paint masterpieces or
dreck, to drink
and talk late into the
night and think and
know you could live
here if you just had
enough time, money,
talent and passable
French.
Thomas Wolfe was
wrong. Over the years
I‘ve found that
visiting Paris on
vacation is like going
home again. It is
still that comfortable
and that familiar and
like most visits home
you can always find
someone there who will
yell, sneer and swear
at you or question
your taste. You’re
bound to run into
someone too who will
offer advice you don’t
really want to hear or
they might even ignore
you completely. It’s
possible they may
criticize what you’re
wearing, what you’re
not wearing or give
you their spirited
opinions on religion,
politics, and the
latest happenings on
CSI Las Vegas!as Vegas!
“C’est probleme!
’Ow can Monsieur
Gree-sum pos-see-blee
know these things?”
I shrugged in
English but it held up
in translation.nslation.
Also, when you visit
Paris you might even
find one or two people
who will drive you
crazy or ask to borrow
some money.
See. What did I
tell you? Just like
home.
Kregg P.J. Jorgenson
is a freelance writer
and a frequent
traveler to Europe |
